Last night I sat at the table with my French husband and a portion of our family. The table gathered in two nephews, one who is married to a German girl. They speak to their son in both French and German, but to each other in English. The other nephew at the table, married to a South Korean girl. They speak to their son in each of their languages, and to each other in English. Giddy with the scent of youth that danced around the table, was my sister-in-law’s mother, who only speaks French, but said (in French) that she loves to listen to people speaking in English, even though she doesn’t know what they are saying. Also at the table, a cousin who loves only board games. A niece with her friend who is studying dentistry in Spain, both girls wanting to help the environment, but not willing to give up essentials like flying on an airplane to buy leather shoes. And finishing out the table, cousins whose only son makes French pastries in California. We all sat around the table eating Italian pizza.
Somehow we fit. We find a connection. We push tables together, and pull up chairs. Open our hearts and minds, and fill our glasses. We are not the same. We certainly don’t blend, but we belong. We have a place at the table.